


The Striped Noose

by Hound



Series: Another Case, Another Chase [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock Fluff, Mild Johnlock Tension, Multi, Mycroft Being a Bastard, POV John Watson, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-27 04:13:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hound/pseuds/Hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After strange submissions to his website, Sherlock receives a call from Lestrade about a killer on the loose. People are going missing by the hour. Can Sherlock, with a little help from John, deduce his way to the killer before it's too late?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Screw You, Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction, and first time posting my work online, so bear with... Also, thank you for reading, and all the appreciation, by the way :D I promise it will get better when I get off my arse to write more frequently.

* * *

As Sherlock stood at the window of 221B Bakerstreet, he gazed through the torrents of British rain cascading down the grimy pane. The sound of the drops drumming against the glass was loud throughout the flat. The tiresome vacancy of London, the cold dampness of the air inside 221B, it was... dismal.  
His left hand grasped the neck of his violin, and his right was moving the bow back and forth across the side of his neck, dusting rosin over the shoulder of the purple shirt he was wearing – the one John suggested he wore today. He couldn't see why he should wear _anything_ , to be perfectly honest. He hadn't a case, and as long as the deluging rain sheeted down as it did, he wouldn't be leaving the flat any time soon. Sherlock was bored.  
Clink. It was the sound of the knocker glancing against its brass panel, the sound that the door of 221B made each time it swung open. The tsunami crashing of the downpour was amplified as the sound rushed up the stairs, and then the front door slammed shut.  
'John.' He stated, without turning around.  
Shuffling feet entered the sitting room, and the rustle of a coat being shed filled the bleak silence.  
'Just me, Dear. I've brought back your suits from the dry cleaners'. You seem to be missing one, are you sure you sent four?' Mrs Hudson fussed, dropping the plastic suit pockets on Sherlock's couch and flipping on the kettle in the kitchen. One of the bags was empty. Sherlock frowned, still facing the window pane.  
'Hmyes...' Sherlock replied. 'No matter,' he broke away from the window and fiddled an elaborate tune with a flourish on his violin, which he then tossed onto John's armchair and slumped into his own. 'Bored. Bored, bored, BORED, BORED!'  
'There's no need to shout, dear,' tutted Mrs Hudson, sliding a cup and saucer into Sherlock's hands, which and been pressed together under his chin. The tea steamed.  
'Thank you, Mrs Hudson,' said Sherlock, realising how very much in need of tea he was. How long had he been waiting for John?

John pulled the collar of his coat around his face. The rain enveloped him, chilling him to the bone, and although his woollens beneath were warm and dry, his jeans were plastered to his calves, and his hair stuck to his skull like cling-film.  
The corner of Baker Street was only yards away and yet the dense fog set it back somewhat metres. Laden with plastic bags, he'd been unable to flag down a cab. He'd spent what felt like hours in the rain, his face was sore with the cold wind, and to top it off, the shopping bags were dripping and beginning to fill up. Goodbye, bread.  
Damn it, why did Sherlock have to be so indifferent? If he was so terribly bored, couldn't he have done the shopping himself instead of sending John out under the open heaven's to get the groceries? Oh. Right, yes. Simple, daily trips to the shops are tedious, pointless occurrences. Suited only to the 'simple, habitually stimulated minds of lesser beings.' The only reason the twat wanted a flatmate was to do the dull stuff so his highness didn't have to lift a finger the irrelevance of it all. Fuck him.  
'I couldn't have said it better myself, John, well, except for that last bit where you included a crude synonym for copulation, that was somewhat irrelevant -'  
'No, screw you, Sherlock. You can put all this away, I've had enough of your nettling, not to mention enough of these sodding wet socks.' John protested, dropping the soaked shopping on the floor of the living room and heading upstairs to his bedroom. He needed to stop speaking his mind so often.  
'I see... Mrs Hudson,' called Sherlock, and the elderly landlady came shuffling out of the kitchen, aglow from having heard the recent events.  
'Oh, Sherlock. You aren't going to ask me to put all that away are you? I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper, dear.' The elderly woman shook her head, her face disapproving.  
'Quite. Well then. They can just sit there, slowly seeping into the carpet, becoming dank and humid, the perfect environment for bacteria and fungi to develop cultures, and spread until the floor begins to rot, and then the plaster will crumble and – '  
'Goodness, Sherlock, you really are a stubborn young man. Oh!' Mrs Hudson set about collecting the shopping bags and bustled back into the kitchen, muttering under her breath.

John tossed and turned in his sleep. Juddering outbursts of gunfire thickened the air. An angry sandstorm ripped at everything in its path, deafening, blinding, deteriorating. Blood. He saw blood, each way he turned, but not the kind he was used to. It was only a matter of minutes that he realised he was alone.  
The shrapnel sand tore at the flesh of the dead. A skull knocked to one side, bleached white. Raging, the storm was a gigantic beast, ravenous, feeding. A skeletal hand opened weakly, and the gun in it's bone-fingers thudded onto the ground. The sandstorm fell silent.  
Click. John felt the muzzle of another gun press against his temple and jumped in startle. Then there was the sliding sound of a trigger being pulled.  
John sat up, a silent yell of protest caught in his throat. The room was dark, curtains drawn, and the door hung ajar. A narrow stream of warm light flooded into his room, casting a ribbon of yellow across the floor.  
A shadow fell over the keyhole as if someone was waiting behind the door. John flinched, his mind wandering back to his dream. The click and slide would have been the door opening, but the experience had still felt more real than ever.  
'Who's there?' he called out, his hand resting on the side of his loaded gun, his finger slowly curling into the trigger guard.  
The door widened a little with a thin creak, so that John could just see the baggy outline of Sherlock in his oversized sleepwear; his dressing gown hung loosely on his shoulders, girdle tangled around his waist. Although he was silhouetted against the vague hall light, his eyes were shadowed and questioning under his brow. 'Sh... Sherlock, why aren't you asleep? it's three in the morning.'

Sherlock had noticed how John's instinct to reach for his gun only came about after a flashback, or a bad dream. It had been happening increasingly more frequently lately, and he also noted that John's crutch had inched closer to his lamp table, and the lamp closer to John's bed. Coincidence? Laziness? No, Lethargy.  
Silently, Sherlock entered the dark room, unspeaking. He tossed his closed laptop onto the end of John's small bed and opened up the screen to his website. The blue glow made John inch away, his dreary vision unused to the intensity.  
Sherlock scrolled down the page, and kept scrolling, and scrolling, until finally he spoke. His voice was so loud, John startled and swore under his breath.  
'Don't you see it John?'  
'No, Sherlock, I can't see a bloody thing. It's too early for me to be reading these things. I'm going back to sleep.'  
'John. Listen, look closer. Every hour, exactly a person goes missing. Does that not strike you as unusual? First twelve fifteen, one fifteen, two sixteen... a minor slip-up, but I'm sure it was just an internet error or -'  
'What strikes me, Sherlock, is that your flatmate manners are at rock bottom. Since when did we agree, as partners, to bother each other in the middle of the night to overlook useless crap like this...' John paused as Sherlock's vacant gaze raised to his, the gold splinters in his irises flickered in the bright light. 'Look, whatever it is, I'll look into it tomorrow. Just, please... I haven't slept longer than a few hours a night for an entire week.'  
Sherlock rose from the end of the bed, clipped his laptop shut and held his gaze with Johns, before turning away awkwardly.  
'There's... a cab waiting outside.'


	2. Autopsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock drags John to the morgue to check out a new arrival, much to Molly's surprise, and gives us all a 'simple' deduction of the situation.

 

~~****~~

* * *

John felt Sherlock's eyes on him as the cab drew through the silent street. Jolts from the wheels over kinks in the tarmac were the only thing keeping him awake. He stared out the window, frowning. Outside, the orange lights glanced off rain-slick concrete and shallow puddles rippled underneath the lip of the curb.  
They drew up at St Bart's, and the two of them stepped out onto the pavement. John shivered despite his many layers, whereas Sherlock stood, unfazed by the chill, in his black coat looking pensive and statuesque. He opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it, and steamed forwards, shoving the double doors so John had to dodge them as they swung back behind him.  
Pale blue light emitting from the morgue filled the dark corridor as the partners strode through the darkened hospital. Sherlock shouldered through the door and entered, looking around. At that moment, Molly rounded the corner and walked straight into him. She squealed in surprise and the packet she had been holding, containing what appeared to be bloody eyes, flew into the air. Sherlock caught them with a swift movement and smiled at the blushing young woman as he handed them back down.  
'Good morning, Molly,' he greeted, striding across the room, ignoring her bemused look. 'I trust we have new arrivals, given your nocturnal state?' He demanded, in a rhetorical tone, taking his usual seat at the microscope and glancing into the lens at some sort of flake.  
'Um... well yes, I was just about to lock up, but I guess you'd like to take a look...' Molly paused. 'Well, of course you do, or you wouldn't be here, would you?' she stuttered, with a nervous laugh.

Sherlock strode beside Molly into the mortuary and leant over the table in the centre, where a body lay in its bag. He shuffled impatiently, politely waiting for Molly's consent to unveil its contents. As the bag was unzipped, the square-jawed face of the corpse stared up at Sherlock with dull grey eyes. Molly quickly reached over and shut them. The gesture seemed apologetic.  
Sherlock pried the bag open more and observed, his eyes flicking skilfully over each inch of the man's cold, stiff body.  
'Late thirties, left-handed, occupation: part-time mechanic, part-time grocery shop attendant. _Smoker._ He had a girlfriend; lived with his parents.'  
Molly tried not to look too impressed. Of course, she was used to Sherlock's deductions, but they still struck her.  
'He was registered under suicide, as he was found on the railway, but I was unsure, so I did an autopsy. I think he must have been suffocated of smothered somehow, as the levels of oxygen in the blood are very low.' She lifted a printed sheet to his attention. 'Also there's blood in the throat, and I found fingernail marks around the mouth. But I don't know, I might be wrong, I mean I haven't examined much yet, but I tend to be wrong... especially next to... you...' Molly trailed off and looked up at Sherlock's empty expression as he watched her speak. She blinked nervously and moved aside, her hands clutched before her as she sidled up next to John, and they exchanged a look that said a thousand words.  
'Wrong. Completely, utterly wrong.' Sherlock straightened up after several seconds of intense examination. 'I mean, you had the concept right, starved of oxygen, suppressed, yes, that sort of thing – but your synthesis, _nah._  
Clearly he's not a suicide victim, you were right to doubt that, but the cause of death is crystal. I mean look at him - it's obvious. This body is fresh, yes? Three hours maximum. Notice the dark creases on the face, caused perhaps by stress or weariness? Nope, agony, _panic_ – the last moments of this man's life were spent screaming, or at least, trying to scream. _Desperation,_ so this supports the theory that the victim died by asphyxiation. Look at his neck. As you seem to have misinterpreted, a bruise over the carotid artery tells us the cause of death could have been a well-aimed blow to the neck with a blunt object, which could have punctured it, and he internally bled to death. Of course, only a dissection could prove that, but no, we look closer and now we can see that the bruises encircle the whole throat, which leads us to suspect the cause of death was throttling. There are no marks suggesting finger pressure, so we move on.  
Fingernails, you said, around the mouth. Probably an attempt to gag rather than smother, to muffle a scream. This man's fingernails are rather dirty. Had you noticed? Some are chipped and there is blood under them, too. Perhaps his handler received some damage as well, but we can't linger on such thoughts so we press on...'  
'Wait, you haven't even seen his fingers yet...'  
'Prints and fragments, John, left side, beneath the jawline. Last minute grasping at his throat before he slipped away.'  
'Right...'  
Sherlock cleared his throat and unzipped the bag further to see the corpse's hands.  
'Anyway, we know he wasn't just strangled; it's something more... Fibers also, under the nails, tiny gold threads. Probably from an item of clothing, a shirt, a waistcoat, more likely, a tie – which brings us back up to the neck, the skin on those bruises is broken, chafed by either a rope of a sling of fabric, or, as I suggested a moment ago, a _tie..._  
But of course, now it's all clear! Obviously, his death was no accident, for the muffling hand over the mouth, evidently by another person due to the possible angles a hand could have approached the face. His handler took the precaution of the victim vomiting, which we know he did by the state of his teeth, by standing behind him. A slight kink in the atlas vertebrae joining neck to skull suggests this man was not only throttled, but hanged. Of course, to back up my final assumption...'  
Sherlock reached deep into his pocket and closed around something, which he slowly revealed before slinging down onto the autopsy table before them all. It was a royal blue and gold striped tie.  
'I found this on a wall bracket behind the garages. So the body has to have been moved after the kill, but the killer couldn't risk returning to the scene of the crime to clean up. Lucky for him, the rain washed away any blood or vomit, which just leaves this.' He gestured at the blood-stained tie.

John stared in silent astonishment, and Molly's face was a solemn picture, knowing she'd got it all wrong. Again.  
'When did you find that?' asked John, scratching his jaw as he watched Molly conceal the man in the bag once more.  
'Irrelevant, but if you should know – you were _asleep,_ John. As usual. Whenever interesting things happen.'  
John lifted his hand in protest, 'What are you talking about: _As usual?_ I haven't had a wink of sleep over the past few days because of you. I get worried sometimes. Don't you ever just... stop?' John swerved as Molly rushed past him with more bags containing human organs. Sherlock looked rather taken aback.  
'I constantly ponder what it's like for you all, so _scheduled_ and _simple_. I train my mind, my system to be useful, to make the most of my time. I don't _waste,_ or take anything for granted. Caffeine keeps my heart rate up, nicotine helps me focus, and c... other things keep me positive. What you choose to do with your limited time on Earth is up to you, but I will stop at nothing to humiliate and disclose how hilarious I find your perfect little worlds.' Sherlock turned and stalked from the morgue.  
'Thank you Molly,' he said loudly. Molly held up a hand, 'my pleasure,' she said nervously, before the door swung shut behind Sherlock. John turned to her and sighed, rolling his eyes.  
'He's a huge child sometimes. He's stubborn and arrogant, and spoiled. Really all he wants is praise. Little does he know there are other ways than insulting people to get it.'  
Molly hesitantly nodded, switching off the morgue lights as she joined John in his following Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long!


	3. Another Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in progress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is still in progress. Should you wish to know, I have been through Chapter 1 and 2 refining and correcting any grammatical and spelling mistakes, yet some still remain and I shall clean them up later.

 

~~****~~

* * *

'You... take me for granted.'  
John spoke matter-of-factly as he glanced over at Sherlock in the darkness of the cab. He squinted as Sherlock remained stony-faced, and then sat back against his seat.  
'What?' Sherlock said, looking at John from within his turned-up collar.  
'You said that you don't take anything for granted. Back at Bart's. And yet you take me for granted,' John smiled sarcastically. Sherlock frowned, and then looked away, his eyes moving as he watched the outside world drift by, his lips parted, before he shot a bewildered glance at John.  
'I don't do that - when do I do that?'  
John scoffed, irritated at Sherlock's vacancy of the subject.  
'I could write a book. An entire book, Sherlock, of the times you ridicule me, insult, me, and wonder why I'm upset. Or all the times you've head off on a whim and expected me to follow you, confused when I am reluctant to do so. I could go on -'  
'Isn't that what friends are for?’ Sherlock’s eyes glinted in the headlights of the passing traffic.  
‘No, Sherlock, what you’re looking for is a personal assistant, better still, a servant.’ John folded his arms.  
‘Are they not all the same sort of thing?’ muttered Sherlock, sounding genuine.  
They pulled up outside 221B Bakerstreet, and Sherlock ducked out of the cab.  
John rolled his eyes.  
‘I’ll pay then!’ he said in an accusatory tone as Sherlock let himself in. Without turning around, Sherlock replied.  
‘Yes. Do!’


End file.
